madness
by ColieMacKenzie
Summary: Nothing matters except finding her... An AU take on 7x15, 'Reckoning'. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Follows the events of 7x14, "Resurrection". Builds upon one to two quick images derived from the ABC promo for 7x15, therefore minimal spoiler warning._

* * *

**madness**

* * *

He's first through the door. He shoulders past Espo and Ryan, muscles his way through the bulk of the swat team; no regard for his safety; he can't think of the danger, can't see any risk because it doesn't matter, nothing matters except her. Seeing her. Finding her.

Kate.

It's been so long; too long. Minutes, seconds ticked by like years, endless, breathless. There were no leads, not a single hint of where she'd disappeared to and he was going mad. Insane with blazing rage, and with fear, his blood ice-cold in his veins and his stomach churning with vicious acid until finally, finally they'd found _something_.

Then it was fast, assembling the swat team, moving out to get her, this force of soldiers, swift and large and black, yet to Castle it felt like a centuries had passed.

He shoves through the metal door that's been rammed open, that had caved with the sheer force of everyone's anger, his eyes racing across the vast expanse of the warehouse until-

"Beckett- No!" He shouts; screams, really, his eyes frozen on the slumped form that's bound to the chair, the long, light-brown hair matted to her head, hanging limply across her face, no longer golden and shiny, but dull and lifeless instead. As lifeless as the wilted body in the chair that doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge the echo of his screams, the roar of the swat team around him.

Later, he won't remember how he crossed the warehouse to get to her, won't _recall_ the way his steps echoed as he ran, tripped, just barely caught himself, the way his scream bounced off the walls, a desperate, piercing, blood-curdling sound; won't recall anything but the moment he sank to his knees before her and she didn't move.

She won't move.

His hands shake as he reaches for her and he knows the answer, the brutal, surreal reality before he even cradles her face between his palms. Her cheeks are so cold to the touch, leached of the unique warmth that's always made her _her_, the strangulation marks angry-red and stark-vivid against the pale skin of her throat.

"No… no no no no no," He sobs, whispers, screams, fingers trembling, pushing the hair off her face, haphazard as they trip over her cheekbones, wipe at the softness beneath her eyes where her skin is tinted blue with the pain she must've endured before… before…

"I'm so sorry-" His knees crash to the cold concrete floor, shooting pain through his kneecaps that he doesn't feel, tears racing down his cheeks that he doesn't notice. He grips her hands, limp and so cold, his thumb circling the tender skin stretched across the back of her hands in the way that had always made her shiver even before he was allowed to love her.

Now, she doesn't shiver.

He sinks his forehead to her knees, hands clinging to hers, waiting for her to squeeze back, for any twitch of her fingers but there's nothing.

Only silence, stark and white and deafening, pushing against his ear drums, squeezing his head like a vice, metal plates crushing his skull.

He's too late.

He didn't protect her when she needed it most. He had promised to protect her. Made vows.

He'd failed her.

And now, there is nothing.

Nothing.

_Nothing._

* * *

_AN: (story spoiler of sorts, for those who may worry)_

_Please note that a) this is not marked complete, b) this is not marked tragedy. Not everything is as it appears..._


	2. Chapter 2

_AN: Thank you to all of you who are jumping into this madness with me ;), and your lovely comments! Big squishy thanks to Dia for so kindly harassing me to write this, but also helping to fix the odds and ends! :)_

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* * *

He won't leave her side.

They try to pry him away. Soothing words, at first, then strict orders in loud, unfamiliar voices when he won't budge. He doesn't care, shakes them off when they try to get to her. He elbows a guy in the stomach when he jerks around, feels a sick satisfaction at the dull impact, the grunt of suppressed pain.

He can't leave her.

He'd promised to protect her.

He's the one who lifts her off the chair, eventually. Once the ropes are loosened, her body crumbling like a marionette with the strings cut, he slides one arm beneath her knees, curls the other around her shoulder blades. His arms struggle with her once-familiar weight when he cradles her to his chest, and he can't quite understand why she's not holding on, why the ladder of her rib cage feels wrong beneath his fingertips; why she smells of harsh antiseptic instead of the elusive cherry scent he'd wanted to spend a lifetime chasing.

He's the one who carries her out of this godforsaken hellhole, through the surreal black honor guard lined at his right and left, and the eyes filled with pity. He's the one to lay her down onto a gurney, and hold her cold hand as they race across town in an ambulance even though there's no rush to get to any hospital.

This can't be real. Can't be real. Can't be real. It's a sound reel in his head, a mantra that clicks over and over and over, a broken record, crackly, tinny, _can't be real, can't be real_, useless helpless desperate words that clash with the cold rubber of her hand in his, the lack of the warm, thriving throb of her pulse beneath the tender skin on her wrist, the absolute stillness of the form stretched along the blue vinyl.

He walks with his wife as she's wheeled along a stark, echoing corridor, his hand gripping hers, his mind blank. It's like he's underwater, muffled sounds and pressure crushing his skull, his legs so heavy, his world surreal in ice-cold-blue.

He startles at a bolt of warmth that lances through his hand; his heart jolts, hurtling itself against his ribs, his eyes flying open in a nauseating rush of hope as he stares down at his wife but her eyes, her beautiful, expressive eyes remain closed, her lips tinted blue, her torso devoid of breath. He chokes on the nausea, his breath coming in fits and starts because it can't be real, she can't be dead, she can't—

He stares at the hand covering his where he's gripping Kate's - Lanie's hand, Lanie's face that appears before him, her mouth moving with words he can't seem to understand beneath the deafening roar in his ears.

"…let go…"

No no no no no -

"Castle, you need to let her go."

He can't. How could he-? He gasps for air, doesn't know if he spoke or cried, the ache in his chest tearing him apart, brutal in its destruction, unstoppable.

"I'll watch over her for you. I promise. I'll watch over her."

She squeezes his hand with a strength that startles him; his eyes fly to hers, find a mirror of his pain in Lanie's watery gaze, in the quiver of her bottom lip, in the façade of strength that will crumble at any moment.

He nods.

He sits on the cold metal bench outside the swing doors of the morgue, stares vacantly at the spot where Lanie disappeared with Kate. The silence is stark, all-encompassing. He sits and waits, doesn't know how long, doesn't know what he's waiting for.

She's with Lanie now. Lanie will watch over her.

Except he knows Kate won't need it.

She's dead.

His wife is dead.

And it is all his fault.


	3. Chapter 3

3

* * *

She sorts through her instruments methodically, meticulously; rearranges the order, counts the metal tools that feel like ice beneath her fingertips, twice, then a third time. She knows she's stalling but she clings to the moment, loses herself in her familiar patterns, the facts and figures that make some sort of sense in the senseless environment within which she operates. Just one more moment where she can pretend that all is right in the world and her best friend won't lie dead in front of her when she turns around.

It's entirely against protocol, her being here. She gives a finger to the rules, would happily kick protocol's ass into tomorrow. Sticking to the rules is what gets you here, with this extraordinary person murdered, victim to some psychopath couple and their dastardly games.

Several of her colleagues suggested they step in for her, Perlmutter all but ordered her from the case but she'd barked at everyone who'd tried, straightened her spine and stood her ground, eyes throwing daggers until they'd backed the hell off. She knows they won't rat her out; in the end they're a united front, backing her up. No one will know.

And she'd be damned before she'd let anybody else near her girl.

Lanie blows out a deep breath, and another, blinks her eyes so the tears chase down her cheeks, clearing her vision. And then she reaches for the pair of scissors placed at the outer-left edge of her instrument panel, and turns for the table.

She freezes at the sight; she knew what to expect yet the reality is still a sucker-punch to the gut, its impact only heightened by the sight of her vivacious, beautiful friend lying so unnaturally still. Her fingers shake, her throat clogged with the wail that's tearing through her but she's forcing it down, not just for herself but for Castle who's sitting just outside, counting on her to be strong. And for Kate. She needs her now.

Lanie closes her eyes; one second, two, and when she opens them again, she steps up to the table.

"Hey, honey," she whispers, running her thumb across her forehead, the blue of her glove shocking against the once-perfect skin of her friend.

And then she gets to work.

She cuts methodically, the scissors crunching through the rough fabric as she works up the pant leg of the jeans, through the waistband and the strip of lace underwear, up through the wool sweater, the bra, the turtleneck; folds open the remnants of clothing, tugging the pieces from below the body, stuffs each into a separate evidence bag. Squaring up at the foot of the slab, she begins her examination from the bottom up, eyeing the lithe, pale limbs, manipulating each carefully to note bruises, discolorations, scars, across the stomach and ribcage and—

Oh dear god.

* * *

She stands back from the hectic bustle that's overtaken her morgue, catches herself for at least the third time trying to bite her nails before she realizes she's still wearing gloves.

Her heart won't stop thumping in her throat. She doesn't think she's ever felt as helpless in her life as in this moment, standing back with the sharp edge of a cabinet cutting into her booty and nothing to do but wait, wait, wait.

Oh god. She should've- How didn't she think of it right away? But no. No. She needs to be sure. They all do. Unfailingly certain.

The senior M.E. she'd called in for assistance finishes every required step with calm certainty if not speed, his team an incongruous flutter of activity around him. It's driving her crazy, makes her simultaneously want to claw at the walls, scream at him to hurry, and beg him for mercy.

She feels that unmistakable flutter of hope in her chest, cutting through the layer of grief no matter how hard she tries to quell it; she won't, _can't_ allow the hope to bloom because it seems too unreal; impossible odds. She might've been wrong, her judgment clouded by despair or wishful thinking, too many variables-

"Dr. Parrish?"

* * *

The metal swing doors are no match for her as she pushes through, its wings crashing against the walls, shattering the oppressive silence in the corridor.

Pure shock seems to jerk him up from his seat; he's swaying as he stands, his eyes flying open, and Lanie startles at how he seems to have aged ten years and lost twenty pounds in just the last few hours, his cheeks drooping, his eye sockets hollow and tinged blue.

"S' not her."

He just stares at her, doesn't seem to comprehend. She can't blame him.

"It isn't Kate." She points behind her, imploring him with the truth, the crazy, unbelievable, staggering, amazing truth.

"Castle, this is not Kate."


	4. Chapter 4

4

* * *

She dreams she's pregnant.

Her stomach taut and almost unbelievably round, and she can feel the baby move inside her belly, _pop pop pop_, like popcorn in a microwave, and how would she even know that it'd feel like this?

She dreams of a cherub-faced infant, rosebud mouth and sky-blue eyes and chubby, pink cheeks, ten perfect wiggling toes, and tiny fingers that close around her index fingers and hold on tight, so very tight.

She seems to dream a lot.

Of the glowing sun as it dipped below the horizon when she kissed her husband for the first time, the sky limned in vivid pinks and oranges, and had it really been this bright, so surreal? Beautiful, like the story of their love - intense and unbelievable yet just perfect for them.

She hears his words, remembers every line of his vows as if it were yesterday. His voice is so clear- as if he's right there, his breath a warm caress against her cheek when he whispers his promises; her eyes fly open, her heart racing but there's only vast emptiness that greets her, cold steel and the stench of antiseptics - the same cold emptiness into which she's stared for hours now, or it might've been days, she can no longer tell.

Kate squirms, tests the restraints that hold her wrists and ankles hostage to the slim cot but it's to no avail. There's no more room for movement than the last time she tried, and the time before that, and before that; no room to even attempt to free herself. She drops her head back down against the hard cot, lets her eyes sink closed.

Is he out there, looking for her? Does he know she isn't dead?

Tears seep from beneath her closed eyelids, silently roll down her cheeks in twin trails that feel almost shockingly warm against her chilled skin.

She'd thought having to watch as Tyson strangled a woman made to look so exactly like her was the worst thing she'd ever had to witness; the sheer horror in the other woman's eyes, the very lucid realization that this was the end as the life drained from her in too-slow increments. The sick spark of pleasure in Tyson's eyes that made her gag on her own vomit. It was like seeing herself struggle for breath, choke with toneless screams for help that would never come. A staged preview to her own, very near end.

And then she had to watch her husband find her lifeless body, hear the inhumane scream that ripped from his throat when he ran for his wife and found her dead. She'd never heard his voice like that, doesn't think she's ever heard any human sound like that, and her chest hurt with a piercing pain that lanced through her heart; its figurative breaking infinitely more painful than the literal throb of a bullet.

The image on the TV screen they'd made her watch was colorless and grainy, the sounds muffled but she could still make out every brutal, horrid detail.

She watched him lift the body in his arms and carry her away, and all energy seemed to drain from him; everything that had made him _him_ instantly lost in the deep black hole of insurmountable grief.

They'd bound her to a chair and she'd fought with everything she had, arms and legs chafing against the tight ropes as she battled its legs, the seat, the back, her feet pushing off the cement floor, almost toppling her over, screaming his name over and over.

But she couldn't be heard, couldn't be found when she was miles away from the scene taking place before her on the screen.

And her screams went silent; her voice absorbed by the cloth gag stuffed in her mouth.

Fatigue is crawling through her limbs, slowly dragging her under once more. Probably the drugs injected into her system, but she lets herself drift, almost welcomes the relief of her dreams.

_Castle_.

Tyson wants to destroy him, seems to consider him the yin to his sick, sadistic yang. It's a cat-and-mouse game to bring Rick to the brink of what he can handle and drag him over to the dark side with him, and from what she'd observed Castle having gone through, Tyson may have already won.

And Neiman, in a bizarre and twisted way, wants her.

Kate can't seem to put her finger on the endgame but there's no outcome that doesn't seem grim.

Because no matter how and when it'll happen, they've made her witness to their crimes.

And if she isn't found soon, Kate knows she won't get out of this alive.


	5. Chapter 5

5

* * *

He paces. Back and forth, back and forth between her desk and the murder board, the murder board and the tech room. He stops in front of the white board yet again, stares at the facts, the lines, the connections; his eyes riveted by her picture, seeking their connection as he wracks his brain, walks through each moment and every single step since Lanie's discovery, every piece of evidence but he keeps coming up empty.

There's just… _nothing_.

The murderous pair disappeared into thin air once more as if they'd never been there; no new leads, no trace evidence, no clues, addresses, hints, just nothing.

Nothing except one hidden camera discovered in the warehouse and an encrypted video feed that seemingly ended up nowhere.

He _knows_ it'll lead them to her - if it can be decrypted. Yet so far that's been futile.

He's grasping at straws. They all are. The only straw. But he'll keep grasping as long as there's a straw. The alternative is unthinkable.

He runs his fingers through his hair, tugs on the strands because he wants to scream. Wants to punch something, someone, needs to go out and search, fight, do something. But he has nowhere to go, no starting point to search.

The waiting is driving him insane.

Is this what it had felt like to Kate, when he'd been missing? This constant, demoralizing battle between hope and despair, trying to find him and knowing he might already be dead?

The parallels are disheartening.

Hasn't he been here before? Desperate and so deeply angry, ready to give up anything and everything to get some answers, any answers? It'd been Alexis that time, only then there'd been leads, witnesses, clues he could follow; something he could do.

His father! Would Hunt come through for him, find a lead or a connection that no-one else could? Castle doesn't even know how to reach him; his last number disconnected but maybe-

And then the door flies open, Ryan and Tory spilling from the tech room; Castle whirls around, his heart pounding, a thick knot choking his throat.

Ryan nods. "We got something."

* * *

"Those cheekbones," Neiman hums appreciatively, runs an index finger along the line of her cheek with frighteningly detached admiration. Kate shrinks away, her skin crawling from the touch; she squirms, heels pushing off the metal operating table, her fists balled, her wrists jerking at her restraints but the binds hold tight; no room to move, no way to fight, to get away.

Her eyes widen with fear, panic clutching at her like ice-cold tentacles as Neiman tugs an IV stand to her side, prepares a needle, every move alarmingly precise.

_Castle_. She whispers his name, though the sound absorbs into the cloth in her mouth. A crushing ache spreads from her heart as she realizes with stark clarity that she'll never see him again. So she thinks of his smile instead, of the laugh lines that crinkle his eyes, of the warmth in his voice when he tells her he loves her.

She hopes he's going to be okay.

Then the IV needle punctures her skin, sinks into her vein and her head falls back, the liquid crawling through her blood, dragging her under.

"Don't worry, Detective Beckett." Neiman looks down at Kate, her eyes alight with a bone-chilling smile.

"I'm very good."

* * *

It's eerily familiar, now, the bulk of black that moves like a wall, wide shoulders and cocked rifles, advancing fast yet deadly silent. His heart pounds, his stomach churning with acid, fear and hope warring within his overactive imagination, every what-if and worst case scenario flicking through his mind like a rapid-fire reel of horror movies. Castle wants to shoulder past, push his way through the front lines but this time the swat team is a solid mass, keeping him at bay; he knows they're protecting him, trying to keep him safe - from danger or from what they may discover inside - but he's still chomping at the bit, feels the panic pound through him, barely able to keep it at bay, his fists clenching. He doesn't give a damn about his own safety, he needs to find her, needs to just do _something_.

The thick metal door falls like a domino piece onto the concrete when the swat team rams through, swarming inside. Through the dust cloud that billows in the doorway Castle can just about make out a figure in a lab coat as she crumples to the ground like a rag doll, her hair liquid hellfire spreading out across the grey concrete. Dark red blooms across the white fabric from the center of her chest where the gun shots struck her down.

Good. He notes it with grim, detached satisfaction, spares no more thought to Dr. Kelli Neiman because behind her, in the center of the cold, utilitarian space lies his wife. His wife, strapped to an operating table, bound and gagged, an IV line lodged in her elbow but alive - she's alive, her eyes wide open, looking right at him across the vast space, drowsy but aware.

_Kate_.

He's across the room instantly, sinks to his knees next to her head. He sobs her name as he tugs the gag from her mouth, cradles her face, kisses her forehead, her lips, her cheekbones; can hardly comprehend the throbbing pulse beneath her skin, the warmth of her body, because she's alive, she's alive, she's alive. She's alive and breathing.

"Rick." Her voice is raspy and he seeks her lips, kisses her with devotion, slow and reverent. Tears slide down her cheeks and he kisses those away too because he'd hoped and prayed and wished and yet he couldn't stop that voice inside him telling him he'd been too late, not smart enough; that he'd lost her forever.

He stays with her, forehead to forehead while she's freed from her constraints, and this time when he carries her out, her arm slides around his neck and her fingers hold on to him, weak yet unmistakable. Kate sinks against him, her ribcage rising and falling beneath his fingertips, and his knees nearly buckle with relief.

She nudges her forehead into the cradle of his neck, her whispered words caressing his jugular. "You found me."

He tugs her tighter against his chest, breathing in her scent, the familiar weight of her in his arms, warm and slender and alive.

"I'll always find you, Kate. Always."


	6. Chapter 6

6

* * *

She's so tired.

She keeps nodding off during the exam - lingering effects of the anesthetics that had started flooding her system just before she was found, the doctor says; that they'll run their course and she should rest, just try to get some sleep.

She's tired of sleeping.

Now when she opens her eyes he's here, he's really here; not just the vivid illusions of her dreams but tangible - his scent and the warmth of his presence, the concerned curve of his smile. She's alive, she's made it, they made it and she doesn't want to close her eyes again, doesn't want to miss a single moment.

She barely remembers how she got out of there, everything a hazy mess of colors and movement, a psychedelic blur but she remembers the piercing blue of his eyes when he found her across the room, the coiled strength of his arm around her back, the pounding of his pulse beneath the skin of his neck when she pressed her lips to it. She's still mostly out of it, only half-aware, feels like she's floating but she clings to his hand, grounding herself to his grip, bruising him with the bite of her nails into the pads of his hand. He doesn't flinch.

"Kate, you need to rest," he pleads with her, concern drawn into the lines of his face. Castle cradles her jaw, his thumb painting a soft caress to her cheekbone. Her body is limp, weak, eager to follow his command but her mind is screaming, her eyes wide with it, imploring as she shakes her head no.

"I'll be right here. I won't go anywhere, I promise." His voice is hypnotic, the drag of exhaustion and drugs inescapable but she's tugging on his hand, urgent and exigent.

"Stay, stay with me." She's murmuring, her voice a throaty, raw whisper that she can't seem to connect with herself. But the mattress dips as he sinks down beside her on the narrow bed and she's rolling against the solid, safe breadth of his chest, her ear pressed to the lulling throb of his heart, her eyelids heavy.

His fingers trail along her spine, up and down, up and down.

"Sleep, my love."

She sleeps.

* * *

The water pounds onto his back, runs into his eyes, mixes with the salty spill of tears that keep sluicing down his face.

He hadn't been able to sleep; spent most of the night lying wide awake and staring at the ceiling. Her body curled against him had held the horror at bay; he'd held her tightly, his fingers fitted to the rungs of her ribcage that was lifting and falling with each of her breaths, listened to her breathing and relishing the warm, soft, tangible reminder that Kate was really alive, that she was safe.

Eventually he must've drifted off into a fitful sleep because his eyes had flown open when it all came hurtling back, so real and vivid that acid climbed up his throat - the memory of her dead weight in his arms, her face pale, slack, lifeless. Gleaming scalpels and her body lying slain, carved and butchered and blood-drenched, reality mixing with abhorrent images of all that could have been; it'd been so close, too close and he'd flung himself out of bed, raced to the bathroom to hunch over the toilet, dry-heaving into the bowl.

When the retching stopped at last he'd stumbled into the shower, standing under the battering spray but the scalding water proved no match to the nefarious visions plaguing him. Hands balled, his nails digging angry-red crescents into the flesh of his palms, he slams his fists against the ceramic tiles. The pain shatters into his bones but it only makes him heave harder as terror wracks through him, the grief and fear and anguish that he'd held inside, had pushed deep down for hours, days, just so that he could keep putting one foot in front of the other now spewing up in ragged, raw bursts.

* * *

Kate startles awake into bottomless darkness, heart pounding, harsh, fierce; tangible like blood against her tongue. She fumbles for the lamp on her nightstand, flicks on the light, watches as the blackness disintegrates, blends into the familiar shapes of their bedroom, the welcoming warmth of their home.

Home.

She's home now, still sleeping and sleeping, as if she hasn't rested in a month, her eyes gritty with it, swollen, her mouth parched.

3:16 a.m. in bright, white numbers on her phone and the bed is empty beside her, the sheets rumpled and cold. The shower is running; a thin sliver of light peeks through the gap of the bathroom door.

And then she hears it again, the sounds that must've woken her - keening, guttural moans barely muffled by the thick wood of the door and the pounding of water against tile. She shifts her legs off the bed, her ankles getting tangled in the bed sheet, tripping her as she stumbles for the bathroom, clumsy with the remnants of sleep and the worry gnawing at her gut.

He's a blurred outline through the fogged-up glass door, a hunched form beneath the steaming spray of water, so much smaller than she's ever seen him before. His forehead pressed against the tiles, she sees his torso heaving, lurching with the sepulchral sounds - like a wounded animal, broken by grief. His anguish claws at her, springs tears to her eyes. She presses her fingers to her mouth, tries to stifle the sobs spilling from her lips.

_Oh, Rick_.

* * *

He cries out, an anguished thing when her arms slide around him, reality clashing with the graphic agony of his mind. Her body draped against his back, cold fingers pressing to his feverish skin and he sobs her name, almost in disbelief that she's really here, in his arms. He drags her into his embrace, his arms tightening around her slender body, clutching her to his chest like a lifeline while he's helplessly bobbing in the tumultuous ocean of his imagination, drowning in his thoughts, gasping deliriously for breath.

Her fingers slide up his back, trail into his hair and he buries his face against the curve of her neck, mouth pressed over her pounding pulse point.

"Shhhh, it's okay, shhhh." She's whispering to him, sounds barely distinguishable from the water that rushes deafeningly from the shower head but he hears her clearly, can almost feel her voice against his skin. "I'm here. I've got you. I'm here."

"Kate." It's quiet plea and desperation, her name a benediction on his lips, and she curls her fingers over his scalp, gripping his hair while she slides her calf up his leg, hooks her knee over his hipbone. She drags herself against him, clutching him the way he clutches her, lost and desperate and the need is sudden; fierce as he needs her closer, closer, can't get her close enough.

She's arching into him, the heat of her body matching his silent plea; he travels his hand along the underside of her thigh, hooks his fingers to her knee to lift her against him, her back pressed to the tiled shower wall. Her fingers seek; take the last of his breath as she guides him inside.

He stills. Cocooned by the steamy womb of the shower stall, surrounded by the welcoming warmth of her, his awareness is heightened to every breath she takes and the rapid pound of her heart, the sharp dig of her fingers into the flesh of his shoulders and the fluttering grip of her body. The endlessness of their connection, the way they are one - body, mind, and soul.

"I love you." She steals the words from his mouth, brushes them like kisses to his ear and he wants to plead with her, beg for promises he knows she can't make, knows _no one_ can make, _don't die, don't leave me behind, I won't survive without you_ -

Because he knows-

They'll never be safe.

It's a chilling realization, and shivers rattle through him despite the heat of the shower and the warmth of her body entwined with his. An eerie reminder of her deepest fear, one she'd revealed to him so long ago when she had at last entrusted him with her heart, and all he wanted, all he _wants_ is to protect her as she will protect him, to keep her safe, alive and vibrant in his arms.

But they both know by now, there are no guarantees. Not for them.

So he cradles her jaw in his palms, lifting her face to his, his thumbs painting soft caresses to the curve of her cheekbones until her eyes slide open. Her pupils are dark, shot through with arousal, consumed by the way she loves him, wholly, endlessly.

"I love you too, Kate" he declares, promises the only thing that he can, the only thing that won't ever change, no matter what comes next.

"I'll always love you."

* * *

_END_

* * *

_a/n: Many thanks go out to Dia without whom this story would not have come to exist, and for reading through oh so many versions of every chapter (though that's kind of her payment for making me write the angst ;)), to Marissa for excellent editorial support, and to my lovely wife for reading and supporting and, well, everything else. :) _

_Thank you for reading! _


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